


Tear In My Heart

by chucks_prophet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Allergies, Angst and Humor, Bisexual Dean, Bisexual Graham, Bisexual Male Character, Cute Castiel, Cute Castiel/Dean Winchester, Cute Ending, Dean is a Good Friend, Emma is Emma, F/M, Flirty Graham, Florist Castiel, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, Language of Flowers, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Tattoo Bonding, Unrequited Love, fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graham doesn't understand it.</p><p>One minute he's in the throes of passion, where it's all heat and sweat and pure, unadulterated greed—the kind that's commercially-manufactured into the hearts of the morbidly obese and screams more more more until your appetite is temporarily sated by a Big Mac and an extra-large "Diet" soda—and...</p><p>Then there was nothing. Well, except the instant regret after chugging a fifth Diet Pepsi.</p><p>Or the one where Graham meets Dean, Dean meets a cute florist who Emma bought flowers from and love blossoms. . . along with other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear In My Heart

_Sometimes you gotta bleed to know_

_That you're alive and have a soul_

_~_ Twenty One Pilots, “Tear In My Heart”

Graham doesn't understand it.

One minute he's in the throes of passion, where it's all heat and sweat and pure, unadulterated greed—the kind that's commercially-manufactured into the hearts of the morbidly obese and screams _more more more_ until your appetite is temporarily sated by a Big Mac and an extra-large "Diet" soda—and...

Then there was nothing. Well, except the instant regret after chugging a fifth Diet Pepsi.

It's not like he's new to this disenchantment. Quite frankly, it happens more often than it should that at this point, he's starting to believe they'll turn his tragedy into a meme. He's fucked everyone and their parents and he still feels this empty pit in this stomach. Honestly, it would be easier if he had erectile dysfunction. At least then he'd be able to sleep at night knowing it wasn't him or worse—leaving someone in the middle of the night with the idea that it was _them_.

The only thought he has now as he gazes upon a thin stretch of freckled skin as moonlight spills through the half-drawn curtains like a jilted lover is that this isn’t the one, and a wave of disappointment washes over his equally naked body.

Hell, most people would welcome a sight so extraordinary, because the man is so himself. He has an athlete’s body, tanned and wiry, yet broad around the shoulders and buttocks. His legs are bowed, mortared in the color of his animalistic thirst. He’d been so pliant, unlike his lower extremities.

He swings his legs over the bed when the covers shift beneath him. “Mm, you gotta hot date or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Graham muttered. This wasn’t supposed to happen; so much for being discreet. He coerced his half-hard dick into his jeans and kept his disobedient eyes busy scanning the floors for his boots. Though he pretended not to notice, the stranger looked up at him, long lashes dusting over Jared-worthy emeralds.

“The table.”

“What?”

“Try the table,” the man explicated, “you were in hurry when you got here…but not so much now. Why?”

Graham heaved a sigh. The guy sure was nosey for a one-nighter. Just because he _saw_ his business doesn’t mean he gets to knowit too. “I fail to see how that’s any of your concern.”

“Jesus, are all you British dudes this touchy? I just asked a question.” 

“And I’m just leaving,” he retorted, heading for the door despite being shorn of a shoe, but the man on the bed was quicker. Graham watched as he plotted to the dresser and pulled out a purple Henley. He put it on after throwing on his discarded—more like salt-and-burn-those-mothers—jeans, leaving Graham no choice but to gape in wonder. Usually people he just slept with take _off_ their clothes faster than he could… well, _take off_.

“Uh, what do you think you’re doing?” The guy tossed him a wry grin.

“Who’s the one prying now? I’m coming with you.”

Graham’s eyebrows narrowed. “And where exactly are we going?”

The man stepped closer until Graham could feel his sexified breath trickle down his thin cotton t-shirt. He could see now the details in the man’s face that were deflected by the night. He had caramel hair, wispy on the outskirts of his hairline and buzzed around his pointed ears. His jade eyes were plated gold to match the freckles flicked at random around his nose. His peachy jaw looked like it held the weight of the world the way it stuck out, not unlike his untiring obstinacy—or just plain jackassery—at the moment.

He detested the way his pretty pink lips curved over the next words: “Thought you had that one thought out, Pretty Boy.” He paused, cracking a sideways smile that probably won over the affections of men and women alike. After all, it did win Graham over. “It’s Dean, by the way.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Graham. Alright, I’ll bite, Dean. Where are we going?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Oh c’mon—” 

“Don’t you c’mon me unless we’re doin’ the horizontal tango, Pretty Boy. A fairy godmother has her secrets to keep.” Graham threw his head back scoffing as he wondered what he did to deserve this punishment.

“You’re not my fairy godmother.”

Dean blew past him like water, heading for the door as he hollered over his shoulder, “We’ll see about that!”

***

The Roadhouse was a bar in central Nebraska that looked more like a B&B reject, but it had a good soul. Dean’s been frequenting the establishment ever since he learned to tie his shoes. His dad was a rambling man, but he also liked a good whiskey. In fact, it was sitting in the booth near the back on top of a splintery tabletop that he learned how to divide fractions using Ellen Harvelle’s famous pecan pie. He hated fractions, but man did he love pie.

Usually he doesn’t let people bum rides in his Baby unless they split gas, but considering he all but did the hokey pokie for the guy in his passenger’s seat, he’ll swallow his pride.

Dean wasn’t mindful of the chuckle that escaped his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he reassured, casting a sidelong glance to where Graham’s dominant hand was, “it’s just if you grip that handle any harder I might pop a boner.” Pretty Boy wasn’t amused.

“I think we’re past that stage in our relationship,” he said, gravel lacing his pesky English accent.

Dean grinned drolly. “Before you know it we’ll be picking out bathroom tiles.”

“Can I ask you a serious question? Why are you helping me?”

Dean swallowed a lump in his throat before answering, “’s just in my nature, I guess.”

Graham scratched his beard, but didn’t seem to give much thought to the next sentence that stumbled out of his mouth like a popular girl coming home after prom night: “I’m not gay.”

“Alright, I’m not taking you to a gay bar.”

“I’m not straight, either.”

Dean swore he felt his brain fart. “So… you _do_ want a gay bar.”

“I don’t know what I want,” he admitted, fidgeting with his long, skeletal hands. Then a puckish smile stretched his chocolate beard. “But at least I know where we’re going.” Dean’s eyes fluttered closed as a few choice words slipped disgracefully from his silver tongue. “So, cruising for more bruising, are we?” Dean cranked the volume on his stereo until the Chevy was shaking like a pimpmobile to “Long Train Runnin’”.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, the music’s too kickass!” he shouted, tapping to the beat on the steering wheel.

Graham shook his head and for once they both agreed on something: It was going to be a long night.

***

Emma felt like she was walking into an orchard of stolen flowers. The place held every kind of floret—from sunflowers to gardenias and lilies to hydrangeas—in just about every shape, size, and maturity. The smell alone was enough to make a bottle top spin, but granted vegetation makes up more oxygen than the air itself, it wasn’t an unwelcome aroma. The shop was so quiet Emma was afraid to walk, even though scuffing her boots might liven up the ambience if only for a few minutes while she perused. Or was it called window-shopping? Old habits die hard when you’re a retired bail bondsperson.

Her eye caught a bouquet of peonies when a low, raspy voice stirred her reveries. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I—uh, no, just looking,” she replied upon turning around, trying not to sound as startled as she looked. Although, it was an even trade because the man behind the counter didn’t look nearly as menacing as he sounded. In fact, he was just barely peeking manhood.

With a flower crown perched on top of his electric blue shock, matching his surprisingly reverent eyes, the owner looked no older than eighteen or nineteen. He turned to grab something on top of the register and Emma noticed a red ichthus etched into the side of his shaved head. She presumed he had similar tattoos underneath his white sweater.

“No problem, let me know if you—” He paused; voice wavering on the last word before a violent sneeze came crashing into his hand. His crown fell forward, almost hiding the blush that crowded his forehead. “Sorry, it’s just allergies, I promise,” he said, sniffing. That explains the rasp to his tone.

Emma laughed, “What’s a guy with allergies doing in a flower shop?”

“I love flowers. Flowers just don’t love me.” Emma nodded with a curt _hmm_.

“Sounds like my relationship with my ex.”

The boy chuckled through an echo that came from a stuffy nose. “The name’s Cas. I would lend out my hand like a proper gentleman but, you know…”

“Emma, and believe me kid, I’ve shaken snottier hands before.” She turned her attention back to the peonies. “Actually, I think I’ll take these.”

***

“Have a good one, kid!”

Cas waved to the thirty-something in the yellow bug as he hit the pavement. It was nearing nine o’clock when he decided to close shop and grab a bite before his date night with Netflix. His apartment was above Casanova Flowers—the name imparted to him by his late mother—and even though he could be economical and whip up something from scratch, his bones were achy from standing on his feet and his sinuses weren’t doing him any favors.

There was a place up the road conveniently called The Roadhouse, but they didn’t have much that didn’t come in a souvenir shot glass. He settled on the sub shop a stone-throw away from CVS, that way he could get his munchies and his meds in the same place.

The cashier that rang him up looked about as enthusiastic a church mouse on a weekday. He didn’t blame her. “Will that be all?”

Before Cas could strangle out so much as a yes, two men came bursting through the door. The taller of them was supporting the weight of the shorter, whose face looked like a first date gone wrong the way it was scorched with hickey-like marks. His breathing was so shallow Cas could hear it from the front of the store.

“ _I need Benedryl, stat_!” the taller one barked. Castiel’s eyes blossomed and he ran over to them with his recently purchased item, thrusting it out at the man. The guy mumbled his indebtedness as he tore the lid off with his teeth, shooting his head back to his partner. “Hey, Graham, you still with me, man?”

The man, Graham, nodded weakly where the other man had set him down. He took out a few pills from their packaging, bent down, and pried his mouth open with his fingers. “Down the hatch, buddy, c’mon.”

Graham swallowed lamely, but it was enough to get the antihistamines down, because after a moment’s hesitation where all that was shared between Castiel and his friend was a racing heart, he sputtered out, “Don’t you… c’mon me… unless we’re doing the horizontal tango, asshole.”

Cas watched as Graham and the man shared a knowing look before he punched him in the arm. “Up yours, Pretty Boy,” he said, helping him up again with his extended hand. Though confused at their choice exchange, Cas helped him up too. Graham smiled down at him and without the extra shade of red coating his face Cas could definitely see why his friend called him Pretty Boy.

“Thank you. Seriously, you saved my life. Unlike Dean here who’s secretly plotting my demise.”

His friend, Dean, scoffed. “Correction, I was plotting to get you laid, and it wasn’t so secret. Besides, how was I supposed to know you had a shellfish allergy?”

“I don’t know; maybe _tell_ me what’s in something before you shove it in my mouth?” he tried. Dean seemed tickled by the statement, going as far as to waggle his eyebrows.

“You didn’t seem to care about that little detail earlier.”

Cas felt himself blush as Graham rolled his eyes and filed out of the store and then Dean’s eyes were on him, albeit nervously, which was ridiculous because Cas should be the one who’s nervous in this situation. He just overheard a conversation between two bantering (boy?) friends that wasn’t meant for his ears. Plus, Dean had these crazy green eyes to pair with a goofy crooked smile that would make anyone’s knees go weak.

Dean seemed to register that they were standing there like two idiots for a long time because a moment later he was picking up the mangled Benadryl box. “Oh, I think this is yours…”

“Oh, right, thanks,” he replied stupidly.

Dean was quick to shove his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I can pay you back. It’s the least I can do after…”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. Your boyfriend was dying. If the situation was reversed, I would’ve done the same.” Dean laughed so hard he earned a dirty look from the cashier. Cas was even more confused.

“He’s not—we’re not together,” he clarified, running a hand through his fair caramel hair. “I barely know him.” Cas’s forehead wrinkled and just when he thought he couldn’t be thrown in an even bigger tizzy, Dean’s hand was adjusting his headband that had yet again fallen askew. “Nice flower crown.” Cas blushed wider.

“Thanks. Nice tattoo,” he replied, gesturing to the navy green pentagram symbol poking out of his Henley.

Dean glanced down and instead of shyly buttoning his shirt up like most people do he pulled back the material subtracting the attention from the piece. “Thanks, my brother and I have the same design, but I’m thinking about adding carnations around flames. My mom loved carnations.”

“Mine too,” Cas replied, nostalgia crashing over him like holy water during baptism. “I actually own a flower shop across the street if you wanted to maybe stop by for a reference tomorrow.”

Dean beamed so wide he scrunched the freckles around his cheeks. “Yeah, I’d like that. It’s a date.”

“Sweet, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Cas said, replicating the same smile and heading out the door.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name!”

“Castiel,” he replied.

“Castiel,” he repeated, biting back another smile. “I like that.”

Cas went home that day with a few more butterflies in his stomach.

***

Graham was long gone by the time Dean walked out of CVS. He’d rather take his chances with a toothless guy named Jeff than hang around town any longer than he had to. There’s nothing like a near-death experience in a smarmy bar to completely alter your perspective on morality—and humanity, for that matter. He knows Dean wasn’t trying to kill him, but it got him thinking. Who knows how many people he’s slept with had intentions that were ill. Maybe not as drastic as murder, but ill nonetheless.

It’s hard to judge when _you’re_ the one with ill intentions.

He wrapped his coat tighter around him to keep out the chill when a car pulled up beside him. “Need a ride?” Graham shifted his attention to a yellow bug, inside it a blonde-haired woman with green eyes. He almost forgot to speak for a second, overwhelmed by the lady’s beauty.

“Um, yeah, I’m kind of far from home, though,” he said, stuffing his hands in his coat pocket.

“How far is far?”

Graham smiled sheepishly. “Mission, Indiana.” The beautiful stranger whistled low.

“I’m afraid to ask how you found yourself out here.”

“It’s best not to,” Graham replied, looking out into the distance. “It’s okay if you can’t take me, I know it’s a lot to ask of, and I’m not exactly the hitchhiking type, but…” The woman tilted her head to the side, causing her blonde curls to tumble over the passenger window.

“Who said I wasn’t going to take you?”

Graham gaped at her, gobsmacked. “What? I mean, seriously? You’re heading that way?”

“Nowhere close, but what kind of person would I be to leave a handsome fella out in the cold?”

Graham blushed despite the frigidness—yes, blushed, like a schoolgirl in detention—and climbed into the front seat. He’s had a lot of people call him handsome, but he’s usually had to buy them a drink first. That or they were trying to get a get-out-of-jail-free card. He stuck out his hand. “Graham.”

“Emma,” she offered, shaking his hand. “So how did you like Nebraska?”

“Hated it. I’ve never missed home more.” Emma giggled as she started the engine. She had a great laugh.

“No love lost there, I see. How long have you been in town?”

Graham glanced at the time on the dash with a frown. “Two hours.”

“Had enough of those tourist traps already, huh?” she asked, grinning over at him. Graham laughed, and for the first time in his life, it wasn’t faked.

 

 

“This is your house?”

Graham watched Emma gape at the expanse of square footage before her with a glint in his eye. He can’t say he’s seen the same slack-jawed expression on the townspeople. It’s quite a close knit community with its unimpressive three-thousand odd people, and considering his unswerving role as sheriff, no one questions his residence in such a luxurious home. Hell, for all he knows, they probably think he pisses into a gold toilet.

“Yeah, it’s not much, but it services,” he gibed, adding a wink for good measure. Emma slapped him.

“It services my ass. This thing’s a freaking castle!”

Graham put on his best charming smile. “Don’t tell me a girl like you doesn’t get treated like royalty.”

“I have one too many gray hairs to attest to that,” she said, laughing. “But what do you mean a girl like me?”

Graham gazed at her like a kid outside of a candy store. The more he studied her face, the more intricacies he picked up—like those small dimples around her eyes that creased whenever she smiled, or her cheekbones akin to two snow globes painted red to match her firehouse red jacket. How she couldn’t see it was beyond him. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t take this wrong, but you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I mean, it’s almost like looking at something straight out of a fairytale.”

Emma ducked her head before raising a skeptical brow. “Are you calling me Cinderella, Prince Charming?”

“I’m far from charming,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Your house tells a different story.”

“My house has a maintenance crew,” he explained, shifting his attention to the front lawn and wrinkling his nose as if dispelling a bad smell. “ _I_ need maintenance.” Emma narrowed her eyes expressively.

“Newsflash, we _all_ need a little maintenance, Graham.”

Graham shifted his focus to her once again, only this time he didn’t bother turning away. He’s been with many people psychically, and yet he’s always felt starved of intimacy. It’s like his heart is a tapeworm that just consumes the nutrients and leaves him feeling empty; bottomless. Never in his life has anyone tried to talk him out of believing that he was anything but broken.

Emma’s pocket buzzed just as he was about to do something impetuous. She reached into it and retrieved her cell, the light illuminating her blackened face. She laughed, “Oh my God.”

“What?” Graham asked, laughing himself. Emma covered her looming smile with her hand.

“Killian, my husband,” she said. “He’s quite a character. He sends me a picture of our dog with the saddest faces I’ve seen in my life. I mean, really, how much more desperate can a guy get?”

It was then, as his face turned as crestfallen as the night encaging them, that Graham could actually _feel_ something for the first time in his life; something so profoundly human that it nearly suffocated him with, sadness, yes, but also pure, unadulterated joy: heartbreak.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> EPILOGUE
> 
> Donna Hanscum wasn’t a flowers kind of gal, but she can’t say she didn’t like receiving them. Flowers were a gesture of solidarity, togetherness—and sometimes, when the mood strikes right, revenge.
> 
> Doug Kontos was, in the words of her best friend, Jody, a dick. He was also her ex-husband. The last time she saw him was at a sheriff’s retreat in Minnesota, chatting it up with women too clueless to be officers of the law and fat-shaming her—yet again—in front of Jody. Donna honestly couldn’t say how she once breathed in the same space as him; he practically lived to waste oxygen sending hapless women to Coventry.
> 
> Doug knew how to work someone over. What he didn’t know was that Donna hand a few tricks up her sleeve. For one, she knew he was so allergic to daisies that he broke out in hives. 
> 
> She walked into the flower shop, the aroma of nature at its pinnacle hitting her square on. The place was silent save for an odd bashing sound coming from the backroom, almost like a stapler shooting empty rounds. Since there was no one occupying the checkout, she felt it was only in her best interest she follow the sound with her ears. However, the strangest thing happened: The closer she got, the less she heard the fitful sound. Whoever was back there had heard her approaching.
> 
> Donna wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting, but there were two gentlemen, naked from head to toe.
> 
> “Excuse me, are you the owner?” she asked, her eyes landing on the younger boy with blue highlights. The boy’s eyes were as wide as grapefruit, but he managed a small nod. “Where can I find daisies?”
> 
> The older gentleman behind him cleared his throat while the other answered, “Straight down to the left.” Donna shared a broad smile between the two of them before flicking her head.
> 
> “Thanks. And take your time; I have a big order to fill.”


End file.
